


flower petals soaked in blood

by lockit (orphan_account)



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Prototype: Fragments of Sky Silver
Genre: AU, Aka what happens when your dad is an awful fucking person, Arthur but Altered?, Arthurian, Bad Parenting, Blood and Violence, He's just not a very good person in this, Merlin Alter? Kinda??, Merlin but he's actually terrible, Minor Character Death, Mostly based around the consequences of Merlin's actions, Murder, No Romance, Think of this as a character study but bad, Unhealthy Relationships, Very loose references to tagged characters, fate is pretty not important until the end oops, purposely OOC, very bad parenting, villain AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 06:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21031397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lockit
Summary: The first time Arthur killed was certainly memorable. The caster could recall it well.How his small hands shook, clenched around a training sword and covered in blood. How the air reeked of blood, which stained the ground, the body and the young boys clothes. He remembered his expression, eyes wider than saucers, glossed with childish-horror. So very Human.- in which merlin is a terrible person and a horrible father -





	flower petals soaked in blood

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not take this seriously. I was a little curious about how you could play to the more demonic side of Merlin, and I could only come up with this, I'm not used to writing things this long so it's a little wafflely. I hope you at least enjoy the concept even if my execution could do with a little work.
> 
> Also Merlin/Arthur or Merlin/Arthuria shippers DO NOT INTERACT.

The first time Arthur killed was certainly memorable. The caster could recall it well.

How his small hands shook, clenched around a training sword and covered in blood. How the air reeked of blood, which stained the ground, the body and the young boys clothes. He remembered his expression, eyes wider than saucers, glossed with childish-horror. So very  _ Human. _

The mage had laid a hand on his quivering shoulder and bit his tongue when the child had jumped. As if realisation had set in, tears had formed and spilled like the rain. The sword discarded with a clatter, bloody hands gripping Merlin's white robes. He had crouched to his height, humming as if he had been stirred awake by a nightmare.

How… funny this all was.

He smiled calmly, rubbing the child's back with a warm hand. He kept his sharp gaze on the body, the colour draining from the dead man's skin.

"Well done."

He wiped Arthur's eyes and picked up the sword, gazing upon the bloody blade as if it were a puzzle to decipher. It was not pride he felt, no, this was the work of a timid child, not a natural born killer, what he felt was mere satisfaction. What mysteries did his man hold? Would he be missed? Of course, the answers were not to be accounted for. Merlin did not care. Human lives were worth less than grains of salt.

Arthur was only a slight exception. He had potential, that was clear, and that alone set him a bar above the rest of his kind. Heh. Perhaps accepting Uther's discarded burden would reap worthy rewards.

He dwelled on this as he wiped the blood off Arthur's hands and combed slender fingers through his blonde hair.

"He's… not moving." 

"That's because he no longer lives."

It took great strength not to laugh, as the words were spoken and the child - who understood life and death enough to be scarred - began to weep once more. Merlin could not help the way he was. He thrived off chaos, so much so that every city his foot touched ground upon would be writhe with anarchy before he ventured through.

This was no different. But he spared the child more trauma for the time being and comforted him the best he could.

He remembered digging a grave and laying the man the rest. Arthur speaking a prayer, likely learned from his household, and gazing at the corpse with a tormented stare. He remembered spells and the stones on the ground as they clicked upon Arthur's heels, the way the earth drank blood like wine.

"Humans are born to die, little one." He had said as they walked on home. Leaving the stranger buried in the middle of nowhere. 

"They are fragile and fickle, and because they fear death, they  _ kill _ . But only a few wield the approval of God. The kings. You are to be one of those few. One who must decide who lives or dies. That is your destiny. A future with blood on your hands."

He cradled the child in his arms, his smile never faded.

"But I don't want to hurt people, Merlin." The strain of tears in his voice had moved the last of the magus’ humanity.

"I know. But that cannot be avoided. You must learn to think solely of your blade and your crown. Once you inherit the throne you will forever be marked. People will try to kill you if you do not kill them first."

He did not mock the fear in Arthur's eyes, for Merlin himself was once a child and once knew fear of blood and sin; he knew the path Arthur walked would one day be stained in blood. Better to let him revel in that humanity of his.

It would not last.

  
  


\-------- ☆ -------- 

  
  


The King Of Knights grew to be every bit as vile as the mage had hoped. Those words of his lingered in the back of his protege's mind.  _ Humans are born to die. People will try to kill you if you do not kill them first.  _ They showed themselves whenever they sparred, Arthur always struck to kill, struck to cripple and conquer. He fought to win and was only to be bested by his mentor and his mentor alone. That was how it would be until he grew old enough to no longer need his council, to step out into the world, twisted into a most interesting human being, without the key things humanity needed.

"Were you speaking from experience, Merlin?" The young man, blooming into his mid-teens had asked him one day. They sat at the table, a magic flame warming a pot of tea, steaming hot plates of food set in front of them both. Merlin’s piled with rich coloured vegetables and sickly sweet cranberry sauce. Arthur’s decorated in meat, red and bloody, but cooked enough to stop his very human body from rejecting it.

While the question had an easy answer it was a drag discussing such things.

"To put it shortly, yes. Many have come for my head. For I am not like them and what they cannot comprehend they seek to destroy. Humans are fickle like that, they hate what is stronger than them, kill what is weaker and turn up their nose at anything new. A boring race if ever I’ve known one~."

He shrugged, nudged a brussel sprout with his fork and studied the would-be-king's face. It lacked the same emotion his child-self held. His moods, while easily read by Merlin, could be hinted through only the change in curvature of brows or lips. Those blue eyes were distant, on edge. Behind them burnt the golden flame of hunger. Hunger for power and it’s protection.

Merlins own fault.

Every since that fateful first kill Merlin had drilled death into the young boys mind. Puppets born from the weak-willed mind of mortals sought them out to bite and break, and Arthur culled them all. Be it willing or not. For many days he lived in a state of alarm, making note of any sound from any place. His face always set in a kind of animalistic panic. It was not fatherly love, nor respect, that had kept Arthur alive, but his own drive and the human desire to live.

Merlin wasn't sure how many corpses had piled up, nor how much blood was spilt, but Arthur had eventually cracked.  _ People will try to kill you if you do not kill them first. _

"I will not be slain." The prince proclaimed. He glowered at the meat on his plate - rare. bloody. - and downed a pitcher of ale, ignoring the tea brewed specifically for them.

"I will not let them claim me."

The mage's eyes twinkled. Contentment settled in his bones, Arthur had always been promising and it would soon be time for him to ascend the throne of Britain and house Camelot. And if they did not accept him, then they'd have a coup to settle with. A violent,  _ bloody  _ coup.

How entertaining things were becoming.

“That means I’ve taught you well. I’m sure your father would be proud.” Uther had scarce control over the magus, this was something he truly revelled in. The man had been a bit of a fool to entrust something so precious in the filthy hands of a half-blood. Merlin had created a monster, a monster who would soon have God’s honor. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to fight back the smile that wished to grow.

“He is not my father.”

“Oh? You reject him?” He asked with amusement, it was  _ funny _ .  _ Funny  _ that Uther’s own blood had grown to be this way, though Merlin could not blame him. His blood is of stolen love. His body created from deceit. Lies ran through his veins, it made sense he felt disdain for the liar who conceived him. He needn’t know Merlin’s own part in that betrayal, he’d never know.

“I’d have thought you’d grow to admire him. His absence is no fault of his, he deemed himself unworthy to raise you so I had to take that role myself.”

“And you are more a father to me than he shall ever be.”

That word was strange. Father. Hm. He thought on it as he slathered crusty bread with butter and thoroughly dunked in it gravy.

  
  
  


\-------- ☆ -------- 

  
  
  


A heavy, eerie silence hung in the room. The King of Britain sat on his blackened throne. Raven feathers and wolves fur made up the adornments of his coal-black cloak. The cape’s interior a rich, deep red and seeming much too like the colour of blood for anyone’s comfort. His knights regarded him with loyal gaze, but Merlin knew before all  _ they  _ feared him most. No matter how beautiful the King of Britain was - with his ashen hair and bright golden eyes, the neat curve of his mouth when he smiled and the sharpness of his jaw - this picture-esque man was a vile, cruel monster.

Just as Merlin had raised him to be.

The coup, which was to be expected once Uther laid his eyes disapprovingly his son, had been nothing short of a massacre. Blood still stained the palace walls, and could be spotted if your gaze lingered. The deaths of King Uther and his courtiers were etched into the minds of those who stood before the King today. The very fabric of Camelot’s existence had rippled, like water in the Magus’s hands. Perfect.

Said magus sat high up on the rafters with his staff perched in his lap, watching the courtiers in all their fear like some sort of vengeful god. To see humans seized up in fright, tension reaching the marrow of their bones. It was a strange kind of pleasure that kept Merlin very entertained as of late. Months, possibly even years had passed since his protege had claimed the crown he so desired, and yet the scent of death still hung so strongly in the air. He was not a good king, but he didn’t need to be. The fear of tyranny kept his throne warm, kept his kingdom subservient, kept his bloodlust in check. Merlin got all the comedy he desired for the small price of aiding his protege with governance. A deal he could not refuse if it meant seeing humans squirm and writhe with discomfort with minimal effort.

There was tension in the breath of every man woman and child present. Sat before the King of Britain was a trembling man. Hunger and poverty had pulled at his skin, set his dark eyes hollow. Merlin could tell this man was no older than twenty and yet the state of his pitiful life had left him a shadow of a young man, who looked to be growing into his elder years. On the floor in front of him were discarded loathes of bread, dirty, wet and a little bit bloody.

The mage watched with a raised brow, curious yet careless. The fate of this mortal would be one he’d forget, as with most of the dying folk. 

The man was quaking, blood staining his tunic. His right hand pressing his left wrist to his chest, his left hand gone. Ah. A thief.

“We caught him stealing from the marketplace.” Said Lancelot, a hand rested on the hilt of his blade, even from this height, Merlin could see the blood that dripped onto the floor from his blade.

To disrupt the King’s Court like this…. How amusing.

“When we pursued him he attempted to strike Sir Tristan and used a woman as a human shield. His hand has been removed as per the law on theft, but he begged to receive your pardon and plead reason.”

Every word made Merlin smile in excitement. Noblewomen and their ladies in waiting whispered in groups, all weary of the trail of crimson that lead to the deus. The lords bit their tongues.

Lancelot’s brow was wet. Dampened from a chase, no doubt weighed down but the sheer amount of intricately made armour he wore. Sir Tristan, eyes closed and mouth pulled into a line, kept his back to the shaking man on the floor, but was cautious to face his King at all times. Mordred looked upon the peasant man with what could be perceived as...pity?

Oh this was too good to miss.

Merlin appeared at his King’s side in a flurry of flowers. Although wherever he walked the scent of life followed, it did nothing to quell the unease in the room. His presence meant trouble. He already held no favor from the gentry and the Knights of The Round were always skeptical. Always watching. For Merlin was both the devil and the angel who perched on the King’s shoulders. He was not unaware of how many in Camelot disliked him. The bastard, half-blood son of a mockery of a nation. A creature of unholy birth, who had not been baptised and had not been kept in check.

The late Uther had made many a mistake during his rule. Perhaps not killing the magus was his greatest.

Lancelot visibly tensed. The courtiers hushed, all knew Merlin was a scoundrel and a trickster, a man who put entertainment before compassion. No doubt he was here to coax the king into more cruelty.

It didn't matter how much work he did to support the day-to-day runnings of Camelot, it was a fools deal to play cards with the magus. Hell, even Tristan opened his eyes when Merlin stepped foot in a room. Usually blind to the misfortunes around him, the frivolous knight wasn't so foolish not to keep an eye on him.

In truth, it was impossible  _ not _ to notice Merlin. The hushed whispers that circulated the room were quiet enough that the clicking of his heels echoed.

"What a surprise! Don't you think, my King?" He dipped into a low bow, ripples of white hair tumbling over his shoulders. His cape moved around him in a flourish, always making a show of himself. "it's unusual that petty thieves request an audience with your grace, hm? I wonder if he'll plead for his life at your feet, or beg for a swift, painless death."

An innocent smile stretched across his face, one so convincing that if you hadn't met Merlin before you'd think him harmless.

The peasant man swallowed, his brow twitched. Someone had finally wrapped his wound, but he was woozy, fading between one world and the next. His gaze reached Merlin with a visceral rage.

"You… You godless creature! Can't you see we are suffering?! There are children starving in the streets and women dying for stillborns! Men are hopeless and weak. While you make merry and tempt war with foreign lands! You seduce the crowns good sense with lies and treachery. The devils son you are-- Spawn of hellfire itself, have you no compassion? Have you no-"

"That is enough!" The King commanded, stunning the room to silence, he had not yet spoken, merely sat in his chair, drinking wine and watching his subjects like a dragon scouting its meal.

The peasant man flinched, on edge. The softness of the King's tone was unsettling to say the least.

"You are well spoken for a man dressed in rags. Tell me, why is that?" He sounded careless, he was merely toying with the man's emotions. It was as he had been taught.

Nobody moved. For a moment the man looked like he was going to faint.

"Stand and  _ answer  _ your King."

When the man did not move, the King gestured towards guards and two stepped forward to pull the man to his feet. His legs were shaking, his trousers sodden with…

Merlin wanted to laugh, but he kept quiet, intrigued. Humans tended to waffle when they were scrapped for time and had no winning moves. Words were as good a weapon as any, but the magus had yet to find a human who could wield them as well as he. Still, he had to give the man some credit, most would not have the courage to face the King of Britain.

“I was a scholar… A scholar cast into poverty, an innocent, educated man who now rots with idle scum because I can not find work without your favour.”

“Liar.” Merlin almost sang, he could hear dishonesty where humans could only guess. “That is not why you cannot find work.”

“Merlin,” spoke his protege without emotion, “hold your tongue lest I decided to cut it out.” 

He raised his hands in surrender and chuckled. The man was unnerved, uneased by how  _ free  _ the bastard wizard could be, how much liberty he had. He feared that. He trembled.

The King rolled his golden eyes, he slouched in his enormous throne and leaned his cheek against one hand. Unbothered by the cold, black metal of his gauntlet. 

“Why is it that you need my blessing?” His voice grew only slightly louder, “such a trivial matter as that of your own incompetence does not warrant an audience, it does not matter to the nobles of my court, nor the gentry who all work tirelessly to keep my favour. All I hear is you blaming me, your _King_, for your own failures. To speak against me, the one granted power by God, to justify your crimes…You are both brave and immensely foolish. The devil shall enjoy devouring you.”

He spoke coolly, all too calm. He rose from the throne, his cape spilling like blood against the floor as he stepped slowly towards the stairs. The man tried to scramble back, throat loosened with a scream. He babbled useless, meaningless apologies and warm, yellow liquid ran down his leg and puddled at his feet. He must have not had water for a number of days.The courtiers grimaced. Merlin wrinkled his nose, the King did not stop his descent. He called for his sword, the blackened blade with it’s ethereal crimson glow. Without looking he tossed to toward the man then beckoned a guard to give up theirs. It was far less extravagant.

“Since I admire your foolish bravery, I’ll give you a chance. If you strike me, once, I will grant you riches, power and influence, I will have you teach the children of the finest families in all the land, your family will never go cold or hungry again. Fight until you collapse, or you win. Only then will I consider your plight.”

Merlin grinned. He slid off the arm of the throne, eager to witness what is no doubt a show. He knew all too well that his Protege, his King, was prone to cruel jokes. The man looked confused, but reached down to grasp the decorative sword. The legendary Excalibur, somehow different than the legends described it. It was heavy, too heavy, even for a sword it’s size. It was uncomfortable in the man's hand. It was not meant for the man’s hands.

He realised all too late that that was most definitely the point.

The King brought down his sword in a magnificent arc, the blade shimmered in his grasp and blood sprayed across to the far side of the room, the man’s already wounded arm landed in a puddle of red. In a panic the man screamed and dropped Excalibur, it clattered against the floor with a melodious ring. He staggered back and fell, sobbing and writhing in pain. When the King continued to advance his eyes grew wide like a deer caught by a hunter and he weeped for forgiveness.

Lancelot frowned. Not a single courtier moved, nor made a sound. Mordred bit the inside of his cheek and Gawain, who had yet to make his presence known attempted to move. Merlin held out a hand and stopped him. Sending the blonde a wild smile and a sharp, hungry gaze.

“Pick up the sword,” said the King. He tore his cape from his shoulders and let it fall in a pile of black and red behind him. When the man did not move he bared his teeth.

“I said. Pick. It. Up!” He punctuated each word, snarled like a lion. Like a beast. Although not nearly as muscular as Sir Gawain nor as quick as Sir Tristain, the King knew how to make his enemies fear him, with a full army, or nothing at all. He loomed over the peasant, his crown dipped low upon his brow, it’s rim looked like a broken halo, a circlet of thorns that glittered in the light. A crown corrupted.

The man finally did as he was told.

“Strike me.” The King ordered, “strike me if not for yourself, for your family.”

The movements he made are not as ferocious as they are on the battlefield, but mercy is not what one would call this display. Mercy would be a flat denial and dismissal, mercy would be a swift death, free of pain. Mercy would be anything but this humiliation, anything but this false hope. This was the first time the King had done something like this, yet it felt like a play Merlin had seen again and again, the kind of play where you know all the twists and turns, all the despairs and triumphs and yet you’re drawn in anyway. Killing, oh he has done much of that before, but this was something new, something indulgent.

“Your Highness! My-- My King, please I beg of you.”

“STRIKE ME! Do not play me for a fool in front of my Court, in front of my Knights, in front of my Mage! Strike as if your life depends on it!”

The man's cry was visceral, hopeless, he thrusted the sword forward in desperation. Too weak to heed where it is aimed, too worn to care. And then nothing. No retaliation, no sound. He opened his eyes.

There is a thin red line forming upon the King’s cheek. Crimson seeped from the cut on his face. Courtiers gasped, knights and guards drew their weapons, the metal of each sabre shining near heavenly in the light. The King seemed unphased, he reached up to dab pale fingers against it, he did not wince, but a slice so thin must had stung…

The man apologised, again and again and again. His apologetic wails bounced from wall to wall, rattled against the rafters and echoed in the beams above. He was only silenced by the tearing of his throat and the capture of his vocal chords. Blood filled his mouth, dripped from his nose and without resistance his head fell from his body and landed on the stone floor with a sickening thud. Merlin hummed, fingers now stained red, neat nails stretched into long, sharp claws. He brought his hand to his face and sniffed, his nose wrinkled once again. Eyes were once more on him as he wiped his hand upon his white robes.

“My my… Arthur, do be more careful.”

  
  
  


\-------- ☆ --------

  
  
  


In the tales we know, the wizard Merlin, born half-blooded, met his demise at the hands of the enchantress, Vivienne. Who manipulated his lust and his arrogance and punished him. The Tower of Avalon and it’s ever-spreading garden became his cage. 

The Merlin of Chaldea was one whom transcended death, one who escaped the grips of life and became the watcher of humanity. The clairvoyant, nonsense speaker, who too scarcely acknowledged his own strength and became the resident pain-in-the-ass to Doctor Romani. The Merlin of Chaldea had helped every so soften, had been a major help in the restoration and protection of Babylonia and had at least one redeeming quality. He was a bright man, one full of life and energy, who knew exactly what to say and how to say it -- even if he rarely used that skill for good -- he was kind no matter how indifferent to human affairs he claimed to be; the Merlin of Chaldea was earnest and (when he had to be) honest.

Ritsuka knew the man stood before him, however, was  _ not  _ the Merlin of Chaldea. Not the Merlin he knew, certainly not the Merlin whom aided humanity against the grips of destruction. His smile did not reach his eyes, and those same eyes burnt a strange mix of lilac and gold, seeming all too bright and cat like in the dark. This Merlin had the long white hair, the elegant, over-designed robes, the inhuman flower-like tufts for ears. He was near identical. In voice, in manner, in action to some degree and yet somehow Ritsuka Fujimaru could not be convinced. Whereas many saw him as a childish young man, one with only good intent, who may or may not be far too dense for his own good, he was observant. He  _ knew  _ how his servants acted, he  _ knew  _ alters from their other selves. He was not so big a fool to look up into this Merlin’s eyes and lie to himself. It bothered him. He could sense it. When Merlin came to him before the scent of flowers and the ring of his laughter was endearing, sweet even. But that was no more, touches on his shoulders that once sparked comfort now left him unnerved and on edge. That sing-song speech called for nothing but trouble, that mischievous smile seemed writhe with evil. The halls he walked no longer seemed a gleam with flowers and the light of Avalon. The steps he took rang through the building, disturbed the Master and left him restless.

Each day that passed drew humanity closer and closer to reformation, to finally living once again. That should have promised Ritsuka some form of ease. But no, the young man’s mind was still a blur of turning gears and overthinking, still wretched and torn by horrors, he had learnt to cope with what he had seen and what he would see, learnt to push each and every singularity to the furthest parts of his brain. Returning home used to bring him a kind of clarity that made it all worth it: seeing Merlin trouble Da Vinci or haggle Sherlock over one thing and the next, sparring with the Knights of The Round, baking with Arthur and Arthuria, it all eased the strain of pretending.

Now it was hard to fight. Hard to ignore when he felt he had to watch his back even in his room, he had grown so paranoid that he had stopped allowing his servants to visit one by one, he spent more time in the infirmary, drank bottles of liquids to lull him into a false sleep or simply cried and cried and cried for days on end.

Merlin watched, he watched as Ritsuka changed directions to avoid them passing, or held his breath a little too long when they spoke. He observed the tension in his muscles whenever he greeted him and the way his master could never quite meet his eyes. It was satisfying to be feared, amusing to know he could no nothing at all and still strike some kind of fear into the human. The other servants weren’t nearly as interesting to study, after all, they -- being Heroic Spirits -- were toughened to trauma and mostly unaffected by his presence. He indulged in the sheer amount of not-so-subtle discomfort he gave Ritsuka.

It reminded him of Camelot, it reminded him of the whispers of the courtiers and the worried gazes of the Knights. Knights who had come from another time and another place, a Camelot not so openly drunk with blood and violence. A  _ boring  _ kind of Camelot. It made him think of bloodied hands and battlefields piled with corpses. It made him remember Arthur’s lust for blood, his thirst for battle, his unmatched desire to survive and destroy everything in his wake.

Ritsuka was meek where Arthur had been brutal. He was the broken man another Arthur could have been. 

Merlin planned to change that. 

One way or another, he’d recreate his King.


End file.
